Forsaken Hunter-Chapter 11: "The Broken Chains of Fate"

The White Room was a graveyard of steel—a sterile tomb reeking of burnt metal and fried circuits, the air thick with an acrid sting that clawed at the lungs.

Beno stood at its center, chest heaving, each breath a ragged scrape tearing his throat raw. His body buzzed—a restless hum of lightning dancing beneath his skin, crackling faintly at his fingertips like a storm refusing to fade.

The robotic wolves lay sprawled across the gleaming floor—twisted husks of once-sleek frames, circuits smoking, limbs twitching in death throes, their red eyes dimming to lifeless black voids.

For a fleeting heartbeat, he thought it was over. His shoulders slumped, sword drooping in a grip slick with sweat, exhaustion tugging at his bones like chains. I did it... right? The thought flickered—fragile, hopeful.

Then—a growl, low and guttural, rumbled through the silence—a machine clawing back from oblivion.

Beno's head snapped up—eyes wide, pulse spiking.

The second wolf jerked alive—mangled limbs sparking wildly, arcs of electricity snapping between broken joints like miniature storms.

With a shriek of grinding metal, it launched—a feral blur of claws and steel, desperate and unyielding.

"Tsk!" Beno's tongue clicked—a sharp, instinctive snap as adrenaline roared back to life. His muscles screamed—aching, protesting—but he shifted, boots scraping the slick floor with a gritty squeal.

The wolf leaped—jaws gaping, a maw of jagged steel—and Beno thrust his hand forward, fully embracing the storm within.

BOOM! Lightning erupted—a jagged bolt of blue-white fury tearing through the air with a deafening crack.

It slammed into the wolf's chest—punching through its core in a shower of sparks and molten metal, the beast convulsing mid-flight, limbs flailing in a chaotic dance.

It crashed—thud—a smoking heap shuddering once before stilling, forever broken.

Silence swallowed the room—dead, heavy—only the faint hum of mana pulsing through the walls remained, a heartbeat beneath the wreckage. Beno's arm trembled—aftershocks buzzing, his breath fogging in the suddenly cold air, chest tight with the weight of survival.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

A slow, deliberate applause pierced the quiet—each sound dripping with mockery. Beno's gaze darted—landing on Charles, leaning against the chamber wall, arms crossed over his chest.

His wild red hair glinted under the harsh lights, but his amber eyes were unreadable—a storm brewing behind a mask of calm.

His fists, though, betrayed him—clenched tight, knuckles white, veins bulging like rivers of rage beneath pale skin.

"Not bad," Charles muttered—voice cold as frost, slicing the silence like a blade.

"But let's be real..." He paused, eyes narrowing, venom seeping into every word. "If those were real monsters, you wouldn't last ten seconds."

Beno's eyes narrowed—chest still heaving, sweat stinging as it dripped into them.

Something was off—a poison in Charles's tone, a weight in his stare that cut deeper than rivalry. Before he could snap back, Franky's voice boomed—a gravelly thunderclap shaking the chamber.

"Well, well, look at that." The guild master stepped forward—his scarred grin flashing, tapping his clipboard against his palm with a rhythmic thwack-thwack.

"Expected something flashier, but..." He shrugged, voice rough with amusement. "I'll take it."

Beno exhaled—sharp, shaky—wiping sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. "So... I passed?" Hope threaded his voice, fragile beneath the exhaustion.

Franky's smirk slashed wide—a glint of teeth. "Yeah, yeah. You passed. Barely."

Relief hit—a faint crack in the tension, shoulders easing as a shaky breath slipped free.

Franky turned—jerking his head toward the door. "Next. Charles—get your ass in here."

Beno stumbled out—legs wobbling, collapsing against the outer wall, cool stone a balm against his overheated skin.

Charles brushed past—his shoulder clipping Beno's with a deliberate edge, though his face stayed a blank mask. For a split second, Beno felt it—a shift in the air, a prickling static raising the hairs on his neck, like the calm before a tempest.

Charles stepped into the White Room—boots echoing in the sterile silence.

The door hissed shut, and before the official call, the wolves—reset, gleaming—charged, claws screeching against the floor in a metallic wail.

BOOM!

A massive fireball erupted from Charles's hands—a roaring sphere of crimson and gold swallowing the air in a blistering wave.

It engulfed both wolves before they could close the gap—the explosion rattling the walls, a shockwave vibrating through the stone into Beno's chest outside. Inside, Charles stood—unmoving, hands raised—flames dancing at his fingertips like living tendrils.

The wolves were smoldering heaps—metal warped, blackened, wisps of smoke curling upward into the stillness.

Franky blinked—then barked a rough laugh. "Hah! No hesitation. You're full of surprises, kid."

Officials behind the glass murmured—approval humming, scribbling notes with quick strokes. One by one, Rio's swift daggers, Joy's brute punches, Annie's icy shards—each cleared the test, the room a gallery of raw power, sharp and vivid.

Beno's body ached—a dull throb pulsing through every muscle as he stood among the candidates, the White Room's glare still searing his vision.

He could barely stand—feet rooted—as Franky loomed, a rough sheet clutched in scarred hands. Officials whispered—glances flickering with amusement, murmurs a soft buzz beneath the tension.

Franky smirked—voice a blade cutting through. "Alright, listen up. Got the results—and only five of you passed."

Beno's chest tightened—a vise clamping his ribs. His hands grew clammy—sweat slicking his palms—heart pounding a frantic drumbeat drowning the world.

"First... Charles Vegnert."

Charles stood—arms crossed, sharp gaze unwavering, a statue of ice and fire. No reaction—just silence.

"Next, Joy... then Rio... Annie..."

Beno's breath hitched—each name a hammer strike, chipping at his hope. Four down. One left. His stomach churned—bile rising, pulse racing as Franky dragged the pause, eyes scanning with deliberate slowness.

"And lastly..." Franky's grin widened—savoring the suspense, "...Beno Mark."

Relief crashed—a tidal wave, legs wobbling but locking upright. A shaky exhale slipped free. I made it.

Franky tucked the paper away. "Those who failed—get out. You don't belong."

His tone turned wicked—eyes glinting. "You who passed? Gear up for the final dungeon exam."

Dungeon. The word slammed into Beno—a fist to the gut. His vision blurred—room tilting as memories clawed free: a Cursed Dungeon, damp air choking him, screams of a collapsing party, a girl's voice fading in the dark. His hands shook—breath shallow—the past a specter looming, cold and relentless.

Muttered curses filled the room—boots kicking stone, glares piercing the five who remained. Charles stood apart—gripping a worn photo, edges frayed. His amber eyes shimmered—tears brimming, lips trembling as he whispered, "Big sister Clara... I miss you."

His voice—a fragile thread—drowned in the chaos.

Beno stumbled out—expecting relief, but an emptiness gnawed, a hollow ache he couldn't shake.

Luna waited outside—perched on a low wall, dark hair catching the late sun's glow. Her grin faltered—dying as she saw him.

His shoulders hunched—carrying a mountain, hands trembling. His hazel eyes—once fierce—swirled with fear, a storm over a restless sea.

"Beno?" She stepped forward—voice soft, urgent. "What happened? You okay?"

He forced a smile—weak, brittle. "Yeah... I'm fine." The lie hung heavy—glass ready to shatter.

Luna frowned—unconvinced—following as he shuffled to a bench beneath a lone tree, branches rustling in the wind.

He sank—staring at the gnarled trunk, a mirror to his tangled thoughts. His fists clenched—nails biting palms, wrestling the ache blooming inside.

She sat close—shoulder brushing his, gaze piercing yet soft. "I know you, Beno. Something's wrong. Talk to me."

He hesitated—breath hitching, then inhaled—cool air stinging his throat.

"Remember when I tried to enter a dungeon illegally?" His voice—low, rough—scraped like gravel.

Luna nodded—steady. "Yeah. You were desperate to get strong."

His fists tightened—knuckles whitening. "They wouldn't let me in... but someone helped.

A girl." His voice wavered—memories surging, a flood breaking free. "She and her party let me tag along. We talked... I asked why she helped me. She said..."

His throat seized—her face flashing: pink hair, bold and bright, a warm smile cutting the dungeon's gloom.

Her voice echoed—soft, clear: "You remind me of my younger brother. He was weak, just like you... always sat near a tree when things went wrong... like you're doing now."

Luna leaned closer—sensing the weight, her breath quiet.

"Then... the dungeon collapsed." His voice cracked—eyes glazing, the past replaying.

"Houndler broke through—huge, unstoppable. Chaos. She protected me—shoved me into a passageway... then..." He swallowed—loud, jagged. "She sacrificed herself."

Luna's breath hitched—mirroring the stab in his chest.

"Before she died... she said something." His head dropped—hands trembling violently. "I remember: 'Take care of my brother.' But... two more words..." His voice broke—a whisper lost in the wind. "I can't remember."

Luna's hand found his shoulder—gentle, firm, grounding. "We'll find her brother, Beno," she said—resolve steeling her voice. "And we'll help him. Whatever it takes."

He closed his eyes—nodding faintly, ache easing just enough to breathe. A bus honked—shrill, jarring.

Franky's bellow shattered the quiet: "Get your damn weakling asses on the bus! Dungeon test's starting!"

Beno stood—legs unsteady but moving, driven by a flicker of will.

The bus screeched to a halt near a massive dungeon gate—a swirling vortex of dark energy, pulsing like a living heart, tendrils of shadow licking the edges.

The test site loomed—a wound in the earth, swallowing light and hope. Five candidates piled out—boots crunching gravel, air heavy with damp stone and faint rot.

Franky stepped forward—wicked grin glinting in the fading sun. "I'm splitting you into two teams. One gets an edge—but it's fair in my eyes."

He turned—eyes gleaming. "Team 1: Beno Mark and Charles."

Beno tensed—a jolt racing through him. Charles glanced over—amber eyes flat, but the air crackled with tension.

"Team 2: Rio, Joy, Annie."

Franky crossed his arms—leather creaking. "Objective's simple. Bring me a Goblin Crown. First team to nab it passes. One hour. Move!"

Goblin. The word unlocked a flood—Beno's mind reeling: a Goblin Giant, its roar, him cowering as Luna fought—then Renzo, a blur of steel, wiping out the horde with one strike.

The scene shifted—Renzo's hand on his neck, lifting him, eyes cold. The last time he'd seen his brother.

Lightning crackled—unbidden, his aura flaring wild, blue-white tendrils snapping. His eyes burned—not with fear, but a hunger for revenge.

The gate swallowed them—cold air rushing over Beno as he stepped through.

He blinked—stunned. No damp crypt—just crisp air, alive with pine and earth. Sunlight filtered through towering trees, branches swaying, birds chirping over rustling leaves. The ground was soft moss, dotted with wildflowers—a forest, vibrant, real.

"It feels... alive," Beno muttered—awe threading his voice, scanning the canopy.

Charles scoffed—sharp, cutting. "Quit gawking and follow me." His tone was ice—stride purposeful, red hair a flare against the green.

Beno nodded—sword gripped tight. Movement flickered—four goblins, gnarled and hunched, spears and clubs raised, yellow eyes glinting malice.

Charles smirked—dangerous. "Listen up, Weirdo. I'll take two—you handle the rest."

Beno steadied himself—deep breath. "Alright."

The goblins shrieked—charging. Beno dashed—ducking a spear's swing, air whistling past. His fist slammed a goblin's gut—wheeze—toppling it.

Another swung a club—Beno twisted, snapping its arm with a crack. It howled—cut short as his sword pierced its neck, green blood spurting.

Charles dispatched his pair—fire roaring, incinerating them into ash in seconds.

He turned—expecting Beno faltering—but froze. Beno's chest heaved—eyes glinting with wild excitement, a faint smile curving his lips.

Something in Charles snapped.

His grip tightened—veins pulsing, rage flooding like molten steel. He stepped forward—stance shifting, ready to strike.

Beno exhaled—a small smile—then—BOOM.

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He rolled—dodging as the ground erupted, dirt and embers raining. Smoke choked the air—he coughed, vision blurring. "Charles?! What the hell?!" His voice—raw, ragged.

A wicked laugh echoed—chilling the forest's calm.

Charles's aura twisted—dark, seething, a killing intent flooding the dungeon, wrapping Beno like chains. His body tensed—muscles coiling—as Charles advanced, fiery rage blazing in his amber eyes, his calm shattered.

He attacked.

A cyclone of fire spiraled—a roaring vortex of heat and light.

Beno's instincts flared—Lightning Step crackling, teleporting him away, the cyclone scorching trees black. Charles snarled—"Fire Arrows!"—flaming projectiles raining like molten stars.

Beno clenched his fists—Lightning Strike surging, bolts intercepting them in a cascade of embers.

Charles rushed—"Fire Blast!"—a sphere of flames roaring for Beno's chest. He twisted—heat searing his shoulder, pain lancing as his shirt smoldered. He stumbled—gritting teeth. Damn it—he's too strong!

Charles struck with precision—honed, relentless—exploiting Beno's sloppy swings, shaky footing.

Before Beno could recover—chains of fire lashed out—red-hot, whip-fast.

He bound his arms and legs—yanking him into the air, a cross of torment. Heat seared—skin sizzling, the stench of burnt flesh choking him. "AAAGHH!!" he screamed—thrashing, flames tightening.

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!" His voice cracked—desperation bleeding through, pain blurring his world.

Charles shook—not fatigue, but raw emotion clawing free. His fists clenched—blood dripping from his palms.

"JUST STOP!" His roar broke—anguish tearing through. "Why act dumb?!"

Tears cut through soot—rage burning hotter. "I know you hid your strength! I KNOW IT!"

Beno coughed—weak, straining. "Listen, Charles—you're wrong! I was weak—I awakened through tragedy!"

Charles's eyes flared—chains scorching deeper. "DO YOU REMEMBER MY SISTER?!"

Beno's face twisted—confusion clashing with pain. "Who...? Sister?"

Charles's breath hitched—trembling, lips quivering. "Clara Hela..." The name slipped—soft, broken.

Memories flooded—pink hair, a warm smile, a dungeon's collapse. A voice: "Take care of my brother, Beno..." His eyes widened—horror sinking. "Clara..."

Charles's voice cracked—a wound bared. "The one you abandoned... to die... in the Cursed Dungeon."

Beno froze—heart stopping, realization crushing.

Charles dropped—knees buckling, hands clutching his chest, holding a breaking heart. Sobs tore free—ragged, guttural. "Because of you..." His voice splintered—choking on grief. "My sister never came home."

The words hung—a noose, suffocating the forest. His amber eyes—drowning in tears—locked on Beno with aching sorrow. "Because of you..." He gasped—shoulders shaking, "She missed my birthday..."

Tears fell—a torrent, carving paths through soot, his fiery presence crumbling. "You stole my only happiness, Beno," he whispered—a knife twisting in his soul.

Beno hung—guilt suffocating, words trapped in a raw throat. How did I survive? The question gnawed—a truth buried deep.

Charles's fists clenched—blood dripping, aura erupting—a vortex of flames spiraling wild. "Why were you saved... and not her?!" His scream broke—anguish lashing out. "WHY DID YOU LIVE AND NOT HER?!"

The Fire Cyclone flared—flames licking trees, blackening leaves as rage surged, a wildfire of chaos. Beno's breath hitched—This isn't just anger... it's agony—deeper than I've known.

Charles lost control—chains burning hotter, Beno's hands blistering, pain consuming.

A black arrow whistled—a streak of death—striking Charles's chest. He staggered—a cry ripping free—collapsing as the chains faded. Beno fell—crashing, dirt cushioning his battered body.

From the forest's shadows, three figures emerged—silhouettes sharp, auras oppressive, rippling sunlight into jagged patterns. Their cold eyes glinted—promising violence—as they approached, steps slow, deliberate.

[End of Chapter]